There But For the Grace of
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: Even when Mary died and left him with two small and lonely little boys - even when those boys grew and so amazingly fast to the men they have now become, one with his endless defiance and one with unquestioning obedience - he had never changed.
1. Chapter 1

**_There, But for the Grace of... Pt I_**

**_By_ _PhoenixDragon aka PhoenixDragonDreamer_**

_**Warnings:**_** Angst (in general - you know me!), Dark!fic, Blood, Language (Foul) - all the good stuff.**

_**A/N:**_** This one's for eloisebright, who made me like John, damn her!! Giggles Worse yet, she made me cage all my other plot bunnies to feed this one, and it wouldn't go away!! So, like or hate it - it is totally her fault!!**

_**A/N 2:**_** Writing this story (which sorely needs completion) led to me writing 'Sometimes'. If you read both parts, you'll understand how the story branched off of this one – and ultimately morphed into its own little AU. Is it connected to this story – is it not? That is up to you.**

_**Wordcount:**_** 1,117 **

_**Disclaimer: **_**Don't own them - but, I'm with Eloise - they own me! And they aren't sharing the coffee with the women locked in the trunk. Dammit. **

_**FB is treasured and adored. Flames and asshats are born ready made for the Pit.**_

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Settling into another random motel, taking the phone off the hook, putting out the Do Not Disturb, so the maids won't wander in to replace the towels, only to be confronted with messy notes on things that don't exist and weapons - lots and lots of weapons. 32 to be exact, but who's counting? It's not like he left the best weapons with.

Better not think about that.

That way lies weakness - that way lies questions that he doesn't want to answer - questions about his life, his current 'job' - and himself. A whole lotta questions about that subject _there_ - top among them being 'what the hell am I doing here?' upon which another ran a close second, along the lines of 'have I finally lost it, lost that edge, lost who I am?'... To which the only answer is.

Never.

Even when Mary died and left him with two small and lonely little boys - even when those boys grew (and so amazingly fast) to the men they have now become, one with his endless defiance and one with unquestioning obedience - he had never changed. He was a simple man, focused - with a drive that would propel him into the world and beyond.

Vengeance was exhaustive and exhausting - and when it ate up everything else, what you had left was - _you_.

He left him there.

Just, _left_.

He knew that if he looked into his boy's eyes, if he saw himself reflected there, he would weaken -

And he would stay.

It wasn't a matter of right or wrong anymore, it wasn't even a matter of safety and 'knowing your enemy and your friend' - it was a matter of escaping that trust, that overall acceptance of being _less_ than your daddy's obsession - and.

It was about vengeance.

So here he was. Everything was the same, and yet so very, very different. Same seedy, crappy fly-by-night hotel that didn't give a fuck if the clientele screamed, bled or just stayed the night (either way they wouldn't check, and only half the time would they even _think_ about calling Johnny Law) - same old smelly, rot your guts out take out, same bad black 'n' white horror flicks, and the same thought running through his head.

_'When I find that sonofabitch, I'm going to rip his entrails out with my bare hands. I'm going to show that fucker his guts - then I'm going to set him on fire, and watch him burn and burn and burn and burn.'_

A satisfied smile would briefly touch his lips at the thought that someday - soon.

It was a smile that made his sons, his strong, stoic and unshakable sons - flinch away and give each other uneasy looks.

But it was a smile he saw them wear too, and that thought both thrilled and horrified him. He felt that cruel, heartless joy whenever they hit a target ten out of ten, when Dean did what he was ordered to without question or even a flicker of doubt - when Sam found that lead, and set his jaw - either in disrespect or in the thick of the chase. But the horror went hand in hand with that joy - the thought that if he loved his sons, _really_ loved them - he wouldn't have started this - he wouldn't have driven them so hard, he wouldn't have wrapped them so firmly in his obsession. But the truth was -

He **didn't**.

Over the years, over the endless, endless hunts, chases, injuries that couldn't be explained properly to _anyone_, school days missed and soft cries in the night from deeper, soul hurts that couldn't be soothed - he found his love of his sons had turned hard, _cold_ - that his reliance on that love had become so set, he had all but forgotten it, and soon, his mind had deemed it unnecessary for the task at hand and had rejected it.

He loved the Hunt more than his own flesh and blood - the reason for that first thirst for vengeance, for _resolution_ - was flicked aside like a used condom - worn out, abused, torn and now somehow, dirty -

His love was his reason, and now, his reason was his love.

That was the main drive for leaving. For just **abandoning** his son in that _other_ seedy, run-down motel room, with bad fast food, bad horror flicks (some of which, only existed in the mind), and even worse soul hurts. Abandoning a son who would never complain, never fault him, never _ask_ -

He could no longer be burdened with his son's love for him, or be riddled with the pain of his love for his son -

He was too close now.

The reports were just _rolling_ in. Possessions up by 35 percent in the past twenty years, demonic haunts and killings, by almost _fifty_ percent.

It was time to go.

And go he did. Leaving his son with more questions than answers, he was sure.

But with Dean - he would never ask - Dean just _accepted_.

Sam on the other hand.

He clenched his fist, biting down on one knuckle to blind out the sudden rage that accompanied the very _thought_ of his younger son - his youngest, whom this all started for - the light of his life, his biggest failure and his never-ending pride and joy - who had just... _Left_.

Oh, the irony of it all. To be angry with someone over their abandonment of you - when you are so willing to do the same in return.

Something so funny should never hurt this much.

_Maybe he still loved them after all._

_**TBC...**_

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_**Written on July 28, 2006**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_There But for the Grace of... Pt II_**

**_By PhoenixDragon aka PhoenixDragonDreamer_**

**_Summary: _And he never thought once of stopping him...**

_**Wordcount:**_**1,051**

_**Disclaimer:**_** Don't own them - but, I'm with Eloise - they own me! And they still aren't sharing the coffee with the women locked in the trunk. Dammit.**

_**FB is nectar from the gods – and will be given it's own altar for me to grovel at. Everything else is fed to Cerebeus.**_

* * *

He's gone.

Dean still can't quite believe it - just finds it hard to grasp the fact that his father just...just _left_ him.

_And he never thought once of stopping him_.

He knew.

The soft sounds of movement, the quiet snick of the door as it shut behind John Winchester. He heard all these things, but something told him to stay still - to cradle himself in that hazy cloud of half-sleep, body strained with the effort of remaining motionless, mind alert to the slightest change in his surroundings. Eventually, he resumed a dreamless doze, but it didn't last long.

'_He'll be back._'

Though he wasn't really sure on that point.

And when he became fully conscious half an hour later, he knew what had happened - his gut told him the truth.

His stomach curled in on itself, becoming a knot of tight emotion, the feeling heavy, sick and _oily_, somehow - his heart thudding a rapid tattoo of barely contained panic in his chest. He had never been _alone_, alone.

And he dreaded the future, wondering what was in store with his dad being gone.

He had gone on hunts by himself, and his father had as well - being gone sometimes as long as a month, before returning to whatever hellhole they currently called home - knowing instinctively that his eldest son would be there -

Waiting.

_But this time._

This time was different. Everything but largest portion of his weapons collection was gone. Dad's journal, his notes, his duffel -

_And his truck._

He didn't take the Impala - his favorite Hunt vehicle.

Dean's mouth was dry, his skin too tight on his skull, eyes pounding with the thud of his heart, trying to pop out their sockets as he breathed through his mouth in slow, shaky breaths, fighting to stay calm.

And so - he waited. He waited at the broken down, rickety-assed table by the window, staring out through the tiny sliver of a gap in the curtain at nothing - telling his gut it was being stupid, that of _course_ he would be back.

_He always came back._

But after a few hours of sitting at the table, motionless, eyes staring dryly at nothing, bones aching from the forced stillness - his head began to agree with his gut - so he did the only thing he knew to do at this point, and the one thing he had put off, because in the end, no, he really _didn't_ want to know. And this one act would tell him everything -

It all depended on John Winchester, now.

He clambered to his feet and stretched, digging his cell phone from his pocket in one swift, practiced move, retrieving the number from the phonebook on his memory page without looking, and hit the Send button - pacing in tight circles as he did so - the stretch and thrum of abused, formerly clenched muscles soothing and familiar.

" Come one, come on, come on - " He whispered to himself, letting his cell ring and ring and ring. The mantra kept him calm, kept him focused - as he was one step away from jumping out of his skin. " Come on, Dad. Pick _up_!"

After fifteen rings, it directed him to the voicemail function. And he hung up.

He felt like crying for the first time in _years_. He couldn't even _remember_ the last time he had cried, much less when he had last felt this - **hollow**.

Dawn had long since approached, a thin runnel of weak, watery light peering through the slit in the drapes, spilling across the tired looking table in dribbling spasms. He found himself staring at it, as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world, his heart slowing to a dull thud of abject apathy under his breast, a far cry from the terror filled pace of before.

He couldn't think, he couldn't _breathe_. Misery wrapped around his soul, and deep within his stunned mind came the glee-filled whisper -

'_I told you so... ItoldyousoItoldyousoItold-you-SO!!_'

" No." He mumbled. " It's just a bad connection. Probably driving through mountains. Yeah, that's it - I'll just try back later."

'_You liiieeeee!!_' With that same hateful, chattering hysteria that madmen must hear on an endless basis.

" Shut _UP_!" He hissed fiercely, resuming his pacing across the ratty floor of the motel room... " Just - shut up."

Tiredly.

_Man_, he was so **tired**.

So he waited some more, and tried countless times all through that long day to reach his father - his last link to family, as the evil voice within alternated between gibbering in crazy joy, and sobbing in bottomless sorrow. Maybe he _was _going mad - it would explain a lot, actually.

Like why John Winchester felt compelled to leave him.

After dozens and dozens of aborted calls, and too many monotonous hours of pacing and sitting while staring at nothing - he gave up and resumed his seat at the window, watching the light crawl sluggishly across the room until it was gone - replaced by the deep dusk of impending night.

So he sat as the night ticked slowly away to another dawn, a shadow in the depths of the dark-filled mausoleum masquerading as another fly-by-night motel room, food forgotten, sleep forgotten - as he waited for an answer from his father that would never come. Needless to say -

It was a very long night, indeed...

_**TBC**_

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_**Written October 2, 2006**_


End file.
